EPSILON-NAUGHT

Breaking bread of pink salt and garlic. Arpeggio

of walnuts in thirty-six layers. Crowns of Douglas fir, paths

of coral red Horizontal Branches and canovian bones

of water phases. Decision nodes of space, rain, and light.

Tie the Earth in one embrace. Six to sunrise.

Not the Moon nor the shadow. Tie the Earth. Wandering winding

stairs of barnacles, as we sit front row in the backstage

that points to the nest, and sounds like four feet

crossing the bridge.

Two yellow plane leaves and lichen on knots of blushing hope

and sliding doors. The geometry of the soul sails

the hanging skies. Bastille bearing beauteous breaths of

the boat with nurturing wings and the steadfast heart

that carries islands of whales. Crumbles swept off the

table to clear the path. A sip of water handed to me at

sunrise. Grunting hummingbirds painting the snow

angel, alert and concealed. The Robin sings over the

Arbutus window, joyfully curled up with the Douglas fir

like a tarallo, offered by the hand that knows two roots.

Ours, it’s the last log by the fire that doesn’t need wood.

Home is a dot away, like a horse in the palace

of the reason, heavy on the Earth alone, reliable on the swing

of the wild soul, balanced by those hands

that have been here before.

Sempre legato, on the holly of silver bells

and burning fire. Let it rest. Leap, as you pour

for it is liquid ratio. Coffee is empty, the cup is full,

and the bread is shared. The water peels away time

and the flakes of sap are the grandiose, mutable evergreen

that taste like honey. A brief history of time. Hills to peaks. Snow to laughs.

Salt to the fern. Room at the table. We have three ones in a rainbow of nine.

There is no shortcut, it burns faster now. One, two, three, four, keep counting the steps.

Almost there. Did you find what you were looking for?

The plough turns the soil in the meadow, as the goat scrambles

to reach the wings of the eye. We plow and plummet to the peaks

like air balloons playing with gravity in the accelerated mist

of the iron rock. Count the blue castles. The tide is space, the wind is time.

Stay through the seasons, as we land on roots of choice and magic yarn.

The ibex of douglas fir leaps

as a shooting star over the bird's-eye view of Key-words and data,

following the path led by the wolf and the bear. Round forests of birch

as a starry flag of celebration, while the fire burns without wood. Flames.

Closer to the eye, waterfalls,

and veils in nebulas of time travels. A note in the window of a birth date,

crowned by giggles and flights blowing

colors from the hole in the ocean to the waterfront under construction.

One, two, three, tango. The last bite is yours. Sway and swing on the pentagram. Sol-ve polluti.

The eluvium dissipates in the dimmer sunrise

that dips roots and rays in the salt of the brightest north. Electric vacuum

as the river of lava ascends to the delta of the

crown. A farmhand awaiting for the perennial trail.

One. Just one has become.

Poem: Epsilon-naught, by Ludovica Mazzucato

Music: Gymnopédie No.1, E. Satie